


Heat Lightning

by twicefivemiles



Series: Lest the Adversary Triumph [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Incest, M/M, sex as a trust exercise?, sex is sort of like falling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-27
Updated: 2013-02-27
Packaged: 2017-12-03 19:30:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/701828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twicefivemiles/pseuds/twicefivemiles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The memory of the final battle haunts them both.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heat Lightning

Lucifer has a hard time submitting.

Michael can see it in the twitch of his wings and barely restrained power in his eyes.

Even so, Lucifer is not fighting. He lets Michael pin his wrists above his head and rub his hands down Lucifer's exposed arms with only a hitch in his breathing. He allows him to nudge his legs apart and settle above him with little more than a wary glare.

It is not usually like this. More often than not it is Lucifer who leads this dance, who presses Michael into the grass and fans his wings out above them.

It is clear in Lucifer's eyes that he is clinging to the fragile trust between them. The muscles of his vessel tense and relax below Michael as he struggles to remain still. But Michael takes his time - because this is not something they should have to _get through_ , this should be drawn out, enjoyed, and cherished.

He traces the lines of Lucifer's form with fingers, lips, and feathers; worships his brother with an intensity bordering on blasphemy.

Lucifer laughs at that thought and it releases some of the tension in his limbs, makes him pliant and more responsive to the drag of Michael's wings along his stomach and thighs.

"It's true," Michael whispers to him, running his lips along the ragged line of his brother's jaw, "I choose you, Lucifer."

Even though he has already made this decision, has already pledged his sword to Lucifer, it still sends a bolt of reflexive fear through him. If this is what it feels like to be independent, to make a _choice_ that does not feel like His, then Michael cannot fathom how his brother has lived with the weight - the responsibility - of it alone.

He presses his own weight onto Lucifer and murmurs reassurances at the flare of panic that assaults his Grace - the rough edge of fear that prickles along Lucifer's Grace and bleeds into Michael's. He hums and scatters kisses to Lucifer's neck and cheek, trying to calm his brother's erratic breathing.

It is not the act that has Lucifer so anxious - human illusions of sexual power mean nothing to them - but rather the voluntary surrender inherent in his position. Michael has Lucifer laid out on his back in the tall grass of a field, brilliant wings splayed below them with his arms over his head and his legs parted around Michael's hips; it is the hands gripping his hipbone and holding his wrists together that make him arch against Michael, instinctive panic rising at the resistance.

To be truthful, it bothers them both, sends them spiralling into memories, to a scene not quite like this on a field not quite like this so many years ago.

It reminds them of the last time Michael held Lucifer down, ripped the sword from his hand while a third of Heaven was beaten and thrown screaming from Paradise. It reminds them of being forced apart by Fate and the Hand of God, by choices that were never really choices at all.

Michael has to blink away the image of seeing his own sense of betrayal mirrored in Lucifer's eyes as he turned his blade against the brother he had sworn to always protect.

But they are trying to move past that.

Michael gentles his touch, shifts the hand on Lucifer's hip to the back of his thigh and positions him carefully, pushes into Lucifer's already prepared body with a single movement. Lucifer groans, pushing his head back into the grass and beating his wings once against the ground while Michael flares his own protectively above them. He stills momentarily, nearly overcome with heat and tightness as Lucifer fights to be still below him.

He leans his forehead against Lucifer's shoulder and digs his fingertips into his brother's thigh, harsh breath and the rustle of feathers the only noise between them. At last, Michael runs his palm up Lucifer's stomach and side, soothing the claustrophobia he feels rising in their connected Grace.

"We're all right," he murmurs, mouthing across Lucifer's cheekbone and tipping up his brother's chin to press an unhurried kiss to his lips. "This is not about battle," Michael continues quietly, releasing Lucifer's wrists to instead tangle their fingers together, "I am going to take care of you."

It is only now that Lucifer's anxiety subsides in the face of desire. He clenches his eyes closed and pulls Michael closer with the calf he has wrapped around his thighs. "Shut up, Michael," he drawls, arching upward.

Michael huffs a laugh and obeys, beginning to move them in an ancient rhythm that makes him tighten his grip on Lucifer's hip and clench their fingers closer together. Lucifer is perfect, as beautiful in his vessel as he ever was back Home, and Michael cannot look away even as the bliss of this crawls up his spine and makes his wings twist and bend toward his brother.

He can tell how much of a struggle it is for Lucifer to leave his arms where Michael has placed them, to keep himself from touching, turning them over and taking what he wants. He tries to encourage Michael, starts moving in counterpoint in an attempt to make it faster, harder.

But Michael refuses. He runs his thumb over Lucifer's hip and presses his lips to the corner of his mouth, keeping his thrusts slow and firm. Michael wants to make this last, make Lucifer shake with pleasure and the sure knowledge that it is different between them now.

He gasps as Lucifer clenches around him and looks up with a sly grin. And Michael flashes on the past again, only instead of the clash of the battlefield he sees them as they once were, before the strife brought about by humankind.

They had always been made to compliment one another. Michael burns hot and his temper rises easily, he is at home in action and prefers the sword over the speech. Lucifer, on the other hand, has a cold fury that is slow to awaken but terrifying at its height. He is gifted with language and prefers not to enter the fray if it is avoidable.

Together, they make a fearsome team, Heaven's favourite sons united in common purpose. It was practically a sin to tear them apart, to have them at each other's throats.

He is only pulled out of his thoughts by the sounds Lucifer no longer tries to hold back. Lucifer moans and exposes his throat to Michael's mouth, allows him to kiss and bite along the side of his neck, wings twitching restlessly.

Michael continues his relentless, measured slides and moves the hand on Lucifer's hipbone to wrap around his flushed erection instead. Lucifer exhales a stuttered breath and closes his eyes again, groaning loudly and – finally – giving himself over to Michael's ministrations, trusting him with their shared pleasure.

It is that willingness to relinquish control, the assurance that his brother will care for them both that finally brings Michael to orgasm. He fists his hand on Lucifer's length as his release cascades over his human senses like liquid heat and his sure strokes into Lucifer's body falter into uneven, jerky thrusts.

Lucifer gasps at the change in the rhythm and beats his wings again as he curls his fingers over his brother's and then is suddenly still. His mouth goes slack in sensation and he gazes up at Michael with a million different memories flickering in his eyes. Lucifer moans a final time and gives in to his own climax, tipping over the edge of physical release.

Lucifer falls.

And this time, Michael is there to catch him.


End file.
